Come Wake Me Up
by saoirse09
Summary: Inspired by the Rascal Flatts song of the same name. NOT a songfic. How Sherlock and John are feeling post TRF and what happens when Sherlock comes back. Angsty with some fluff at the end. Johnlock if you squint and listen to the song, friendship if you don't or just don't care. Rated T for substance use/near-use.


Listen first to the song Come Wake Me Up by Rascal Flatts. It's easy enough to find on youtube. It was the inspiration for this story and, I think, adds to it. (Plus, for all you Johnlock fans, it is only sincerely Johnlock if you listen to the song first.)

Sherlock (c) BBC

* * *

**Come Wake Me Up**

John Watson sat in front of the fire at 221B, a glass of whiskey in his hand, the bottle next to him on the side table. He shouldn't be here. He knew that. He should have found a new flat somewhere far away from Baker Street, moved on. It had been a year.

But he couldn't. The idea of leaving the flat he'd shared with Sherlock terrified him. Maybe because leaving meant he'd finally accepted the consulting detective's death, finally accepted that he was never going to look at those piercing blue-grey eyes, watch as long violinist's fingers ran in agitation through unruly black curls, or follow the long swish of a dark coat down an even darker alley ever again. The ex-army doctor put his glass to his lips, threw back his head, and swallowed the fiery liquid in a quick gulp. Automatically, he reached for the bottle to pour himself another shot.

It was empty.

It had been half-full when he sat down before the fireplace two hours ago. Lowering the bottle back to the table and setting his glass down with a _clunk_, John leaned his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands, pushing his fingers through his short blonde hair. It was longer now than it had been a year ago. Almost as long as before he joined the army, though nowhere near as long as Sher-

He needed more alcohol. He hadn't managed to forget yet, to make himself forget, to drink himself into oblivion the way he had for the majority of the last 365 days.

And yet he made no move to get up. He was too tired.

Groaning, John stared into the flames and let the images wash over him. The memories were as bright as if he'd made them only yesterday. Brighter, perhaps. As bright as the fire flickering before him.

Sherlock, long coat swirling around his ankles, a manic gleam lighting his eyes, running out into the night yelling, "PINK!" back up the stairs.

Sherlock, terror alight in his eyes as John stepped into view at the darkened swimming pool, wrapped in a much too large winter coat and a vest of explosives.

Sherlock, wrapped in nothing but a sheet on a couch in Buckingham Palace, giggling like an eight year old as his brother looked on in frustration.

Sherlock, silently bouncing that damned ball against the counter in the lab at St. Bart's as John yelled at him, calling him a machine for not caring about Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock, phone pressed to his ear, standing on top of the hospital, telling John he was a fraud, telling him to speak words that couldn't possibly be truth.

Sherlock, lying on the pavement.

Sherlock…

Sherlock…

John felt the tears slipping down his cheeks. He made no move to wipe them away. There were so many words he'd take back now, if only he could. So many things he hadn't meant, that he never should have said. And so many things he hadn't said that he should have. So many that he should have done but couldn't.

He brokenly whispered once more the words he'd said at the grave. "Please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."

He felt like he was in a bad dream and couldn't wake up.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes paced the tiny flat he'd rented in the city whose name he couldn't remember. It wasn't London. The soft glow of the TV flickered between blue and white, washing over his features as obnoxious audience laughter burst from the speakers. Seemed he needed to turn the volume louder and louder these days just to think. It still couldn't drown out what he didn't want to hear. His mind was the one thing he couldn't shut off. And this was the first time he'd not been able to delete something when he wanted to.

The consulting detective stopped his restless wandering about the room and sank onto the edge of the worn bed, resting his head in his hands. He couldn't think. He was stuck, with no more ideas, no clues, no way he could see to destroy the organization that had ripped his life apart. Mechanically, his hand reached into his jacket pocket for the box of cigarettes resting there. He tapped one out, realizing as he did so that it was the last. Damn. He'd have to go buy more. He lit it, breathed it in, out, but it did nothing to stimulate his mind, obscure the memories constantly running beneath the surface.

Sighing, Sherlock gave in. If he couldn't think, he might as well remember. The images flooded in and with them, the pain, like fire coursing through his whole body. He remembered everything, every detail, irrelevant though it may be. And one figure burned brighter than the rest, like the light of the sun obscuring the stars.

He felt a line of tears slide down his nose, drop to his trousers, soak into the fabric. He hated crying. It blinded him. But it didn't matter tonight. Because, obscured though his physical vision currently was, in his mind's eye, he couldn't help but see so clearly the most probable course of events in London. John was happy, laughing, dating, moving on. Leaving Sherlock behind.

It was a living nightmare. And no dawn was in sight.

* * *

Sherlock looked up at the numbers of an unfamiliar flat in the suburbs of London, comparing them to those on the small slip of paper he held in his hand. He'd had no desire to accidentally delete this information.

This was it. The right place.

He rang the doorbell. Waited.

After a few moments, he heard the tramp of feet down the stairs towards the door. It was so well-known that his heart, the one he hadn't known he possessed, ached. Yet, somehow, something was off, not right, the sound of those past footsteps not echoing the same as these through the long corridor of memory.

The door opened and a small man, a heartbreakingly familiar man dressed in one of those ridiculous jumpers, surrounded by a habitat that was not his own, looked up at him, the half-smile of polite welcome dropping from his features as quickly as a light shutting off.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Hello, John."

* * *

John hadn't punched him. Yet. Not that he hadn't thought about it from the moment he recognized that tall figure looming on his doorstep. But he'd restrained himself, calmly returning back into his flat to tell Mary that he was going out and would be back shortly. He led the consulting detective, the bloody alive and well and certainly not dead definitely didn't commit suicide consulting detective, to the nearest café.

Now they were sitting at a window table, not quite facing each other, Sherlock staring out the window, John intently studying a mark on the floor. He looked up, focusing his gaze just to the side of the other man's face.

"You're not dead." The doctor was still trying to process and thought stating that fact aloud might help. It didn't.

Sherlock just kept looking out the window.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Three years, Sherlock. Three. Years. I stayed at 221B for a year and a half, hoping… I don't know, that you would walk through the door muttering about being bored and it would all have been some big joke. But you didn't come back. So I left. I have a fiancée now. Her name is Mary. She's… wonderful. And she has the patience of a saint to deal with all of my issues."

"I know." Those two words contained all the broken pain of a man trying to put his life back together. But John didn't want to hear it. He barked out a short, humorless laugh.

"No, you don't. I waited for you, Sherlock. But I had to move on. I couldn't… I couldn't wait for you forever, like some toy on a shelf. And now you come back, like nothing happened. What do you want? Huh? What do you want from me?"

The detective finally turned away from the window and moved his piercing blue-grey eyes to his friend's face. "John, I just want to ex—"

But suddenly, John didn't want to hear it. He couldn't do it. He couldn't pretend this wasn't slowly killing him. Gesturing the universal sign for, 'stop, no more,' he interrupted the man who had once been his best friend. "You know what? Never mind. I don't want to know. I don't want to have anything more to do with this… this. Ever. I don't want to see you again, Sherlock." He pushed back his chair, got up, and left the restaurant as quickly as his limp would carry him.

Blue-grey eyes gazed after him through the window. Sherlock slumped a little more with each step the doctor took until, as the distant man turned the corner, the former detective was the very image of lost hope. John was not coming back.

* * *

He contemplated the vial in his left hand and the syringe in his right. Slowly, he drew the liquid into the chamber then tenderly, lovingly, placed the needle against the raised vein standing out so sharply in his arm. He took a deep breath.

The door bell rang.

Startled, Sherlock looked up, hope flaring. But it quickly died within the logic of his own mind. John wasn't coming. He'd made sure of that, royally screwing up everything even better than he had three years ago. He listened for Mrs. Hudson's light footsteps moving towards the door before turning his attention back to the syringe. He wanted a different kind of fire in his veins. Slowly, he pushed the needle through his skin, relishing the sharp pain of it.

In the back of his mind, Sherlock registered low voices speaking downstairs. But it didn't matter. Nothing did anymore. John was not coming to wake him up from this nightmare.

He placed his thumb against the plunger and closed his eyes.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps. Loud footsteps. Running footsteps. Familiar footsteps. And they were rushing, leaping, jumping up the stairs, towards him. Sherlock's eyes flew open and he lost his grip on the syringe as he whirled up and out of his chair. Without the pressure of his hand to hold it in place, the needle slipped from his arm. The syringe clattered to the floor, where it lay forgotten.

Moving as if in a dream, he went to the top of the stairs, where he was barreled into by a small, stocky, jumper-clad figure. They clung to each other like those who had just emerged together from a living horror. It was the first time either could remember that Sherlock had ever been glad to be wrong.

* * *

K, so I'm not entirely sure about the end. I may tweak that later. But not now.

Review :)

Edit: One of my friends pointed out that "pants" in the UK means "undergarments." So I changed it to trousers. Sherlock was NOT pacing around in his underwear. ;)


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